Things May Never Change
by bitterasblood
Summary: Set after the events of Crimson Peak - in which Thomas Sharpe survives. He tries to move on with his life, but Lucille just won't let that happen. [Thomas Sharpe/OC - Rated M for future chapters]
1. A New Start

1

A New Start

* * *

It was strange to Thomas Sharpe, to wake in a house that didn't moan and cry. It was strange for him to wake still warm, able to move his fingers and toes, his skin not marred by the freezing wind. Allderdale Hall was part of his past now, a dark, rotting memory that lingered in his dreams and hid in the shadows during daylight. Lucille was dead, Edith had moved on, now happily married to Dr. McMichael and yet, it was still strange

Whilst Thomas' mental memories were hazy, the physical memories were much more prominent: the scar on his cheek, the line even whiter than the tone of his skin, and the colour of his eye. In Lucille's rage, she had punctured his skull with a tool file, shoving the harsh metal implement into the man's brain, rupturing his eyeball in the process, and now - whilst his brain had healed - his eye had not. The white of his sclera was now permanently tainted crimson, and his sight lost.

Rising from his bed Thomas flexed his limbs, his body aching, and the headache that resided in his skull a permanent fixture. The doctors had given him various concoctions to relieve the pain, but nothing had helped. All that was left of Lucille was the scar and the pain - losing that all together meant forgetting her completely, he could not do that. Not now. As he headed downstairs, the fireplace in his living quarters still glowed from last night's fire, his latest literary read (Edith's latest work) lay page-down on the table, next to the empty glass of scotch and an equally empty bottle. He lived a simple life now, far away from Allderdale, from Cumbria, from all of it.

Leaving Allderdale was hard when his sisters presence still lingered. Even after a rage filled Edith caved in her skull, she lingered, like a bad smell. The place was full of death; it shuddered and shook at night, the ghost of his Mother and now his sister roaming the halls as Thomas tried to sleep. They scratched at the doors, rattled the handles and screamed profanities only Thomas could hear. Like a child he hid under the covers, the pounding in his head unbearable, but eventually, he decided to go. Thomas stayed to watch the winter leave, as the blood red hills turned back to white, then to green of grass - and when Spring finally arrived and the wind no longer chilled him to the bone, he left. Closing and locking the doors was met with wailing from his sister like he had never heard, even when she was alive. When he slept there, when he slept in their bed, she would whisper her anger and hatred, but it would quickly be soothed with words of love and affection. Her breath was like rotting meat and it took all of Thomas' strength not to vomit through her vapour form. She would lie beside him, stroking his face and kissing his neck, as if she were not dead, but as the doors closed, as he shut the book on Crimson Peak, Lucille cursed him.

"The dead can curse the living,". That is what the priest had said when a worried Thomas Sharpe appeared in his confessional box, drenched from the pouring rain - and that is what Lucille had done. She had vowed to never leave him, no matter how far he ran, how deeply he hid, she would find him. She would make sure her never, ever forgot what happened at Crimson Peak.

Thomas had stopped in his tracks, his plan to head to the cold floored kitchen halted as he stood, frozen in the memories, with Lucille's screams echoing in his ears. He had seen snatches of her since moving to his new home, slivers and scrapes of her. Whilst his mother's ghost had been the colour of the clay he so desperately tried to mine, Lucille was blacker than the night itself. Comprised of ash, smoke and hatred, she lingered in reflections, around corners and in the cracks of doors. But never would she fully appear. Thomas heard the lullaby too, every now and again, snatches of his sister's graceful fingers lingering across keys that were no where to be found and that is what he heard now. He did not get emotional any more, the act of crying caused pain in his damaged eye - the tear duct damaged through the attack, but as the ghosting tune of the lullaby caressed his ears, Thomas sunk into the nearest chair and began to cry.

He cried because he was lonely. No, he wasn't lonely; he had the ghost of his dead, vengeful sister - but she was not human. She was far from human. Thomas wanted a human companion. He missed Edith. He had loved her, he had truly loved her, and she was gone. He cried because he was scared, the things Lucille had hissed at him as he'd closed the doors of Allderdale would never leave his mind. Her threats and her anger unsettled his very soul. He cried because he was weary of merely existing. He was not living, he was simply…alive. Despite his money Thomas led a simple life, but he had nothing to do. Shoulders shaking from the sobs that poured from his chest, the room got unnaturally cold, shockingly fast. Thomas didn't have to look up to see whom the hand on his shoulder belonged to.

Lucille stood beside him, her caved in skull tilted at an unnatural angle, set to mimic concern or care for her brother, but as her nails bit into his skin, slicing through the material of his clothes, he knew her intentions were far from sweet. The breaking of her jaw and nose from Edith's shovel wielding meant Lucille's once sweet voice was now fractured, gravelly and raw. Words were indistinguishable from her wheezing breath but still Thomas understood. Black blood dripped from her destroyed face as she snarled at her brother;

" _There is nothing for you here Thomas…_ " He knew what she was saying; despite seeming sentient, Lucille's ghost only seemed to have a set number of phrases, and this, like every other time, she pleaded with him to die, to end it all.

" _We can be together…forever…_ " the pain from Lucille's hand matched the pain in his head. Thomas avoided eye contact with her, neither his, nor her eyes were up to such a distressing sight, and thankfully, the tolling of the grandfather clock (inherited from their Mother's Father) rang in the hallway. The sound was sharp and clean agains the chill Lucille's presence had created, and she faded away like a breath, disappearing as if she had never been there. His shoulder was fine - ghosts can't hurt the living Thomas - you learnt that when your Mother tried to hit you, her form tottering and swaying with the axe slammed precariously into her skull.

Gathering his thoughts, Thomas ran pale fingers through his unkempt dark hair, and looked across the room to a small work table; on it sat a music box he'd never quite finished, and an idea sparked in his mind. Lucille bothered him not when he was busy. When he worked she was no where to be found, her presence all but forgotten. He also remembered reading about the local orphanage, and how they were requesting things for the children, the difficult monetary times proving a drain on everyone. For the first time in a while, he smiled.

" _A chance to start again Thomas_ ;" He murmured to himself, and stood, wiping the tears away, before padding through to the kitchen, humming the ever familiar lullaby.


	2. Creative Flare

2

Creative Flare

* * *

Thomas Sharpe was nothing short of methodical and a perfectionist - in all things. His work shop at Allderdale was organised and tidy, there was a place for everything, and everything had its place. In his new home, the same principle remained. He had turned the spare bedroom of the small house into a new work space, and it was completely untouched. However, having taken all this time to create such a space, he'd found himself spending hardly any time there at all, having lost all drive and passion for what he had planned. But this time as he faced the clean wood of the door, things were a little different. There was drive. The was passion. There was purpose.

Unlocking the door to the small room, he stepped in and smiled, everything was as it should be. With the newspaper clipping about the orphanage in his hand, he sat at the bench, looked at the tools before him, and began to plan. Making toys was something he'd become proficient in as a child and young adult, as his and Lucile's mother gave them no attention and they never had a Nanny. As a result, the two had learned to play by themselves. With what materials he could find in the loft, boy Thomas had made all sorts of wild creations, but his proudest of all, which sat to one side of him, was the toy magician.

A wooden figure of a man with a red waistcoat sat behind a small table, a cup in each of his mechanical hands. The user would wind up the mechanism with a key, and the the little wooden man would come to life. The cup in the toy's left hand would come down and onto a little metal plate fell a silver ball; clinking as it did. Sweet music, much like the ever-familiar lullaby, played as the cogs ticked over, and the magician's other hand would come down, the cup hiding the ball, and, as if by magic, the little man's mouth would open…and out fell the ball into the cup that it had toppled out of moments before. This provided endless hours of wonder for Lucile, asking over and over if Thomas would make the magic man work, and to this day it still did. He caressed the worn wood with a fond finger and smiled; those were happier times. Peaceful times.

He sketched first, drawing up details and ideas, the creativity flowing like never before. He felt the familiar swell in his chest of joy, something that had been dormant for what seemed like an eternity. His head throbbed, but the pain was put to one side as the excitement of what he was doing began to build. Soon, pieces of wood became smooth and polished, minutely intricate mechanisms were built by candlelight and an ever shaking hand, but despite all this he managed it. Within the space of four days, Thomas had made a grand total of 25 toys, all different, all unique. Some puzzles for the older children, designed to challenge and make them think differently, some as simple as a wooden duck that quacked when pulled along by its string, a toy Thomas knew he would have delighted in as a toddler.

But, with busy and exhausting days came sleepless nights, nights haunted by grotesque nightmares. His head ached more than ever and he was weak. Sleep would not grace him with her sweet caress, so he spent his nights reading by the fire, whiskey warming his blood and numbing his thoughts, at least when he was drunk Lucile's presence left him be - she had never liked her brother when he was intoxicated Then, when the sun kissed the horizon as morning came, he would slip into a drunken stupor, waking only a few hours later.

On this morning, his mouth tasted sour and dirty, his skin was sticky with sweat, and his cheek and left hand stained with faint traces of blood from his eye - when not properly cleaned the blood clots behind the globe of jelly would leak through his tear duct - another reason he didn't leave the house much - he already looked like a monster, and crying tears of blood? He couldn't handle the ridicule. Thomas had done it once, just to see what happened, and it was as bad as he'd predicted. Children buried their heads into Mother's skirts, people stared and gasped, hands at their mouths as they whispered. Thomas learned very quickly that humanity care naught for themselves.

At the threat of losing him, and in turn, losing their money, Lucile had tried to kill him. People were selfish, protecting themselves from what scares them. What was the phrase? We fear what we do not understand. Thomas often wondered if he should write, as he spent most of his days in silence as there was no one to talk to - and as a result his thoughts roamed around his head, and they continued to branch out as he boxed the toys. Each one into their own individual box, packed with sawdust for safety, then the smaller boxes into a large crate. Inside he left a note, scribbled in his shaking handwriting, hoping that the orphanage liked his humble offering, and if permitting, he would happily make more. Signed, T. Sharpe, and whilst it was a risk, he'd also included a return address. By time he was done, his hands hurt, his thumbs were stuck with splinters and his head burned like the fires of hell, but he was happy. He was smiling. He felt joy.

It had gotten to a point now where he sensed Lucile lingering before she physically appeared. Of course she would arrive, to dampen his joyful mood. Excessive swells of emotion from happiness, to sexual arousal all the way down to deep sadness, would make her appear. He had heard a fortune teller once say that spirits feed off of the energy of others, leaving the victim drained and empty as the greedy entity feasted on the life force they gave out. Thomas thought that summed it up rather well. Even in death Lucile remained greedy. She had always been the greedy child. However, being female had not helped. Father wanted two strong boys, but instead had been left with one of each, blaming the children's Mother with a hatred more poisonous than snake venom. In turn, Lucile became obsessive and desperate, trying her best to please her parents, but no matter what skills she gained, or how much she learned, she was shunned. Her brother was her only comfort, her only solace from the beatings and harsh words. Greed consumed her, she took everything from her brother, his kindness, his sweet nature, her greed was not for material possessions - that only came later in life, but as a child she devoured the emotion Thomas gave her, like a leech too lazy to detach itself.

There she lingered, an ice cold hand on Thomas' already cold shoulder, cooing at him, sounds to mimic love but all that came from her rotted mouth were gurgles one could not discern. She leant her head down to his, going to kiss his temple, but the apparition vanished as there was a loud knock at the front door. Thomas' sighed gratefully, taking a moment to compose himself and place his dark glasses over his eyes. At the door was a coachman, here to collect Thomas' box of toys and with a little help, the box was sent off, the horses hooves echoing down the cobbled street as Thomas closed and locked the door.

He collapsed against the wood, sliding down the door and burying his head in his hands. He ached, physically and mentally. His head still pounded, he felt as if the vessels in his skull would burst, and his vision went white. Memories flashed past his eyes and, whilst still conscious Thomas struggled to remain so. Would it ever stop? Would it ever end. Right now he wasn't sure, and dark thoughts of ending it all crept into his head, past the blinding light and fractured memories. He had very little to live for. He had money that he did not use, he had no wife, no family, no heritage. What he did have was deformity, a begrudging ghost of a sister who haunted him and loneliness. But, then he remembered the orphanage, and the toys he'd worked so hard to make. The white light faded, the pain lessened and he stood slowly. He had purpose, he couldn't throw it all away now. For now he would wait, to see if the orphanage sent him a letter in return, in which case he would gladly make more toys. For now, he needed to eat and rest.

Patricia Kensington received a delivery at St John's Orphanage rather unexpectedly. Having just cleaned up from breakfast there was a ring at the front door, and she opened it herself. On the door step was a large wooden box, around half her height, straw protruding from gaps in the wood and when she tried to move it, she heard the ring of bells and the knock of wood. With a small amount of struggle, she lifted the lid, and on the very top was a letter. The address of the orphanage written in cursive, and sealed with a wax stamp. Opening it up, she read the letter, and smiled with delight;

 _To the inhabitants of St John's Orphanage, I enclose a gift.  
Having read your notice in the local paper, I have a made a selection of toys for the children. I do not have much to offer this town, but if the most I can do is make a child smile, that is all that I wish for. If you would like any more making do not hesitate to get in touch. _

_Sincerely, T. Sharpe_

On the back of the letter was a return address. Tucking the letter into her apron, Patricia called some of the older children to come and help and as the toys were unloaded, in that moment, she couldn't have been more grateful for the toy making stranger. She heard the younger children calling out, asking if it was Father Christmas to which the brunette quickly corrected them, and said she wasn't sure at all who had delivered them, but sure enough, it was a miracle.


End file.
